Theme and Variations
by Dailenna
Summary: [Royai] Sequel to 'Seeing Double.' Mustang, Hawkeye and Havoc suspect that Flame isn't dead, and attempt to find him. Crossover with . . . pretty much everything, currently Harry Potter.
1. Brigadier Generals, Clichés, and Necessi

**Disclaimer:** I don't own FMA, or any of the other chows mentioned. All will be referenced in their chapters.

**Notes:** Hello again, everyone. Well, I said I'd try to come up with a sequel, and after mulling it over for weeks, I've finally come up with a chapter or so. For those who don't understand, this is a sequel to my story "**Seeing Double**". If uncertain of any references to past events, they will more than likely be in there, but I will attempt to keep them to a minimum. All you need to know is that Flame is the fanfiction version of Mustang, and Riza is the fanfiction version of Hawkeye. Flame was in the 'normal' FMA world for some time before dying, which sent him back to his own world, though the characters don't know that yet. Thank you for reading, and now, on with the story.

"**Theme and Variations**" or "**Drawn Like a Mustang To a Flame**" by **Dailenna**

**Chapter One: Brigadier Generals, clichés, and necessity**

Quietly, Havoc's pen tapped away at his work. His small, 'neat' – as his mother called it, anyway – scribble emerged over the page bit by bit. He could hear Hawkeye's pen moving with equal fervour across the other side for the room, and up at the big desk, the Colonel's pen was still for a short moment as he considered his phrasing. The other office boys had gone out on some practical mission that didn't need much attention, and now Mustang, Hawkeye and Havoc were the only ones left in the room.

A knock on the door disturbed the monotony known as 'quiet work', and after being bid entrance, a face poked in through the gap between door and doorway, soon followed by a body in uniform. The soldier in question walked up to the Colonel and handed him a note.

"The Fuhrer's condolences," the young man explained briefly, eyes on Mustang as though seeking approval – he must have been a new one to the forces to still be wearing that expression. How he got to delivering messages for the Fuhrer was beyond Havoc – normally that was saved for those who had attained some form of rank and needed a good dressing down. Maybe they'd finally come across a combination of Brigadier Generals who weren't entirely self-involved and had needed someone else to do the job.

Havoc watched as Mustang waved the messenger out the door, and opened the note, eyes skimming over the words and absorbing more than most would at first glance.

"What's in it, chief?" Havoc spoke up. "Ah, that is, if I may ask?"

Mustang gave a careless look in his direction. "The Fuhrer merely wishes to apologise for our having lost my 'brother' on a military mission, despite his not being officially involved in the military." The note was casually tossed to the side of his desk. "At least not in _our_ military," he muttered.

Only days before, a visitor of theirs who was physically identical to Mustang in every way – which is how they pulled off the façade that they were brothers, to avoid any unnecessary explanations – had celebrated his death with an Amestrian military-style funeral.

The man had been, at times, an insufferable idiot who enjoyed tormenting many of those forced to put up with him, but he could be quite bearable from time to time, and the fact that Mustang and Havoc had been his host in turns led them to miss the fellow a little. A very little. Hawkeye, on the other hand, was undeniably female, and had had to put up with varying degrees of assault from the man as he attempted to 'charm' her. Although she did once begrudgingly admit that he was altogether harmless – outside of Flame's hearing, of course – Havoc did not think she would be regretting his absence in the same degree as he and Mustang did.

The stupid, annoying git! Why did he have to go and get himself killed like that? It was so inconsiderate and badly timed that Havoc could see how the thought would appeal to Flame when in one of his more aggravating moods.

"Do you ever get the feeling that he's not completely dead?" Hawkeye asked all of a sudden, setting down her pen and looking complacently at the ceiling as she thought.

Havoc looked up and stared at her. Was she crazy? Of course the man was dead! And if somehow he hadn't been before, a week in that coffin would have at least led to suffocation, and he would be dead _now_. The man had been stabbed in the chest – Mustang himself had seen the body, as well as the men who had had to carry it out of the house.

"Yes," came Mustang's voice, with a wistful tone twisting it slightly. "He's not the sort to up and go without one last laugh."

Head whipping over to look at his boss, Havoc's eyes widened. Was everyone going crazy? Sure, Flame did like to have a good chortle at those around him, but it wasn't like he could put off something like a violent, murderous death just to giggle at them all. "If he isn't dead, then where do you suppose he is?" Havoc challenged.

"Back in his own world, I'd imagine," Mustang mused.

That did make some sense. The man had bemoaned the absence of his precious Riza often enough that Havoc could see him being spirited away to her side so swiftly that he left his body behind. The idea seemed clichéd in its philosophy – back to his world, indeed! – but Flame was all about cliché. If he was anywhere, that's where it would be.

"So what are you going to do about it?" came a new voice from the open doorway – the messenger must have forgotten to shut it when he left, and now Edward Elric stood in the doorway, a secure smile most prominent on his face.

"Do about it?"

He nodded and strolled forwards lazily, waving gloved hands in the air as he spoke. "I mean, let's say that you could travel into another world and see for yourself if he was there . . ."

The three officers looked at the young alchemist intently, varying degrees of shock apparent on their faces. All at once they opened their mouths, uttering something along the lines of "Is it possible?"

Smug smile unwavering, Elric pushed up his right sleeve. "See for yourselves." Where before there may have been one well-crafted automail limb was now a complete human arm. Admiring the sight, he spoke before any of them could question his revelation. "An Ed I met in another world had discovered the secret to regaining flesh . . . without using the Philosophers' Stone. It took some convincing, but I managed to pry the details from him."

Various 'oohs' and 'ahhs' of approval emanated from Havoc and Mustang. Hawkeye merely looked on, with what looked suspiciously like pride shining in her eyes and congratulated the boy on regaining his limbs.

"How?" Mustang asked, his usually well contained shock seeping out into both his voice and his expression.

"I can't tell you that," Elric teased. "I promised Ed that I wouldn't tell – it's been his life work, you see. He only shared it with me because – well – because I _am_ him."

When Mustang looked somewhat crestfallen, he took a step forwards. "Oh," Elric added, a twinkle escaping what Havoc now understood was a very reserved expression for the importance of the occasion. Elric's grin broadened considerably. "And have you met my brother?"

Three shocked pairs of eyes snapped onto the new figure creeping stealthily – creeping stealthily as opposed to clanking _really loudly_ – into the room. The boy was positively emaciated, hardly an ounce of fat to his cheeks, but he looked as through he had just returned from the grooming parlour with a freshly chopped haircut and squeaky-clean smile.

"Alphonse Elric?" Havoc asked in amazement.

The boy grinned, his joy barely held back. "Yes, Lieutenant Havoc?" The one familiar thing about him had finally surfaced – his voice. There was no doubt that it was him.

A bout of friendly, excited laughter circulated around the room as each officer stood to greet and congratulate the new boy before them. The fact that he was no longer a hulking suit of armour with the disturbingly cherubic voice of a young boy would take some getting used to. Now he actually _looked_ like the cherubic child the voice belonged to. Now he looked like Edward's _younger_ brother.

"So, you wanted to find Flame?" Everyone's attention snapped back to the older – and finally taller, if only by an inch – Elric. "I assume that means you'll need research as to how to get to other worlds, and as I'm – ahem – retiring from the military, I suppose that you could say mine is up for grabs."

Havoc looked at the alchemist in shock, then went to exchange glances with Mustang, but Mustang was already exchanging glances with Hawkeye, so instead Havoc waited until they were done.

"No catches involved?" the Colonel asked hesitantly, as though afraid of what Fullmetal might ask of him.

"Nope. I'm just happy to have Al back."

After considering the statement, a smile spread over the older militant's face. "Your notes would be greatly appreciated, if you'd be able to get them to me."

Elric nodded. "I'll have them sent over to your house, then – so that these lot won't try to get their hands on them," he grinned, motioning in the direction of the higher officers' offices. He gave a polite bob of the head towards each of them. "Nice to see you all again. If you ever need to contact me – _need_ to, mind you – I'll be in Risenbul."

"Goodbye Colonel Mustang; Lieutenant Hawkeye, Lieutenant Havoc! Thank you for helping us out all of these years!" chirped Al before following his brother's retreating back out of the door. "You're welcome to visit any time you want!"

From outside in the corridor, Edward's voice came back – "_Only when it's absolutely necessary!_"

The office quietened down with their absence, seeming fuller than it had before the Elrics had appeared. Finally back in their proper bodies – how had they managed that? Maybe Havoc should have asked before they left. Even if he hadn't understood all of the alchemy mumbo-jumbo, it should have made for a good story, and an excuse to not do much for the rest of the day.

"Well," he said, looking at his superior officers, "we _were_ wondering, and now we have a way to find out about Flame."

Mustang rested his chin on his hands. "Yes, it looks like we might. How providential . . ."

Lightning flashed, and thunder rolled about in the sky outside. Havoc smiled at the weather's attempt to dull the mood. He didn't think anything much could bring them down from this high right now.

* * *

Flame watched the storm playing outside his window and groaned. "I don't have to walk home in _that_, do I? Can't you drive me, Riza?" 

She sighed, handing him the new stack of paperwork she had just fetched from the office, and Flame idly wondered whether what she did was the same as any secretary. He did doubt that any other 'secretary' would shoot off their employer's means of reproduction, however, and so left the thought unsaid in an attempt to divert the aforementioned disaster.

"Roy, just because you're useless in the rain–" he sunk in his chair "–doesn't mean that every rainy day we have, I'll drive you home."

There were those words again. 'Rain.' Bleargh! 'Useless.' Ugh! Why did she have to remind him? It was plain insulting. But it did make it all the more fun when he proved her wrong – he wasn't entirely useless, after all. He'd just have to convince her to drive him home so that he could prove it . . . again . . .

"Pleeeease?"

"Oh, _alright._"

He blinked – that was quick. Had is always been this easy? Maybe he'd just spent too much time in Mustang's world – after all, Hawkeye was the epitome of stubbornness as compared to Riza. His Riza. Flame snickered.

"Are you alright, Roy?"

Whoops. "Yeah, I'm fine. Are we going home, or what?"


	2. Perfumed Letters, Sorting and Sleep

**Disclaimer:** I don't own FMA, or any of the other shows mentioned. All will be referenced in their chapters. In this chapter, I don't own any of the places, people or titles referred to in Flame's letters.

**Notes:** It's a bit short, but it was taking me ages, so I thought I'd give you a bit for now. It gets across what I want it to, anyway.

**Chapter Two: Perfumed letters, sorting and sleep**

Unlocking the door quickly to escape the worsening weather outside his house, Flame stepped aside in as gentleman-like a manner as he could to allow Riza to bundle herself indoors. When he had closed the door and was hanging up his coat next to hers, she bent down and picked up his mail, flipping through the envelopes quickly as she walked to the kitchen.

"You've got a fair few here today, Roy," she said, passing them to him when he moved to look over her shoulder. He put them aside on the counter and kissed her neck, laughing when she squirmed and giggled.

He was just wrapping his arms around her waist when he remembered that there were some sorts of work that had to be looked at before anything else. He had had a few bad incidents when he ignored his mail for more spur-of-the-moment gratifications. With a sigh, he retracted his arms and looked at the pile of letters on the counter with an expression of disgust on his face.

Riza seemed to understand. She smiled and gave him a cheeky wink that just seemed to scream 'just you wait until this is done' before sitting down and opening one of the business-like letters. She always allowed him to open the more personal looking ones, just in case. That 'just in case' was usually nullified when he tried to hide a letter but she read it anyway and made him reply to whichever girl it was with a note telling her that he wasn't interested and would she please leave him alone.

Sadly, there were none of those letters today – all addresses were printed onto the envelopes in a professional manner. Although, he was sure that he could smell the faint whiff of perfume from somewhere in that pile. Maybe it was just his imagination playing games with him. Instead of searching for it as his instincts told him to, he grabbed any old one and ripped it open to read the paper inside.

After having sorted through each individual letter, he marvelled at the job opportunities he was given. Some he would accept, some he might not. Just as long as there weren't any double bookings, they should be fine. Somehow he was always able to get time off from the military. Maybe his subordinates covered for him – he wasn't sure how it worked.

The offers he had found so far intrigued him. One written on what looked like official stationary asked him to come and help out as a substitute teacher for a week or so at some 'Hogwarts' school. Another, signed 'Joker', raved about Paper (with a capital 'P') for a while before asking if he'd help destroy 'them'. Flame liked the look of that one – the man must have hated paperwork just as much as himself. There were also a few letters asking him to destroy this or that person, one from someone called 'Dragon' called for his services as an 'Asha'man', one from a military man called for him as a 'Shinigami', and one as a 'random hot guy at a party'.

Smiling at thoughts of what exactly he might be required for at these places and parties, Flame noticed one particular letter that Riza had put on her other side, away from him.

"What's this?" he asked, beginning to reach over to grab it. A quick elbow jab into the ribs made him detract his hand and drew his eyes to her stern face.

"You aren't accepting this one," she said, taking up the letter and walking towards his bin, shredding the letter as she moved.

He gaped after her in shock, certain that that must have been the perfumed note. "Why not?" Since when did Riza tell him what to do? Was she allowed to open his fan-mail too, now? He'd never get to look at any of his own letters if she started opening his personal mail. But thinking back, he was sure that there hadn't been any handwritten addresses. Unless his fans were getting more cunning in their ways, he had no idea of why–

"Let's just say that this would _never_ manage to make primetime television viewing, and leave it at that," she said loftily.

Flame gazed at the small scraps of paper now fluttering down into the bin in wonderment. He felt warm and fuzzy at the reminder that he was back in a world where television was available, but a little sickened by the insinuation he had derived from Riza's words . . . albeit oddly curious – if she hadn't ripped it into such small pieces, he might have been tempted to try and put them back together once she had left.

The loud explosion of a gun firing brought him out of his reverie as Riza put a few bullets into the torn pieces of the letter for good measure. If the letter was entirely demolished, he couldn't even try to answer it.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Flame jumped up, waving his arms. "Are you going to buy me a new bin for that, or just leave it with holes in the bottom!?" He'd had that bin for three years now, and was quite happy with the way that it resisted melting whenever he burnt any particularly heinous piece of garbage.

Eyes narrowed, Riza turned to him, the barrel of her gun moving to follow her line of vision. Ah yes, back in his own world.

"I– I– I'm sorry, sweetie, I didn't mean to interrupt you," Flame choked out, only putting his hands down out of the air when Riza's gun had lowered. Why was she always so angry like that? It was enough to give a perfectly healthy man a heart attack.

When she returned the gun to its holster, Flame nervously bundled the rest of his letters together. Answering them could wait for another day, when Riza wasn't so ready to blow his head off.

* * *

Picking off the tape that held the box shut, Mustang began to open the second of the three boxes Fullmetal had dropped off at his house. When the boy needed to research, he did it properly, that was for sure. There had been a note taped to the top of the first box indicating that the basics were in that one, and the other two were numbered as to which order Mustang would have to read them in if he wanted to understand it all properly, which of course he did. Now that he saw how much he would have to read, he almost wished that he had some sort of assistant. It would take him hours to sort through all of this and to separate the small details any alchemist would know from the hard facts he'd have to absorb thoroughly. 

He picked up the pen and notepad he had put to the side and started sorting through Fullmetal's pages.

* * *

When Mustang returned to work the next morning, Hawkeye could see his eyelids drooping and wasn't surprised when he gave out a big yawn upon stepping through the office doors. He dropped his coat on the floor next to the coat rack and plodded over to his desk, sitting down in his chair heavily. 

Almost tentatively – she was Hawkeye, after all, and tentativeness wasn't something Hawkeye was known for – she asked what had happened to make him so tired.

"Next time Fullmetal wants to do me a favour," he said wearily, "remind me to get him to do the alchemy instead of foisting all the paperwork over to me." His head thumped down onto the desk and stayed there for a moment before he wrenched himself back up and blinked widely a few times in an attempt to keep his eyes open.

Hawkeye frowned. If there really was that much research to be done, then it would take them weeks before they were able to actually do anything. Not that she was complaining, but weeks of Mustang coming into Headquarters half asleep? That would mean more work for all of the others in the office, and that wasn't something that any of them would be happy with.

"How long do you think this will take, sir?"

"Oh, it all depends on how fast I work through it," he said loftily, yawning again. "If I work at the same pace as I did last night, then . . . Then it might take another two days."

Eyes widening, Hawkeye looked at her commanding officer in surprise. Only another two days? Why was he working so hard at this if it was going to be ready so soon?

"A-alright, then," she said, trying not to show her confusion. "Do you need any help with the work?"

Mustang waved a hand in her direction. "It's fine – it's just sorting through the frivolities and the necessities that's taking all this time."

Ah yes, the sorting. Hawkeye had never been a fan of trying to pick out what was important and what wasn't. It had always seemed easier to go over everything thoroughly, just in case the minor details were also 'necessities'. That way she wouldn't accidentally miss anything.

"The one interesting thing that I've come across so far," Mustang was saying, "is a note from Fullmetal saying that he had to try a few times to find a world with an 'Edward' who knew how to get his and Alphonse's bodies back. It sort of makes you wonder just how many other worlds there are out there. Does that mean that there are more Flames, or are the other Roy Mustangs like me? Or, then, are they all different? Is there even a Roy Mustang in every world, or do I not exist in some places?"

He was about to continue on his little meandering away from the topic, but Hawkeye interrupted. "Sir, you're babbling. I think you need more sleep than you've been getting."

Humming and 'hah'-ing, Mustang made his way around to agreeing with her, finally having determined that four hours was not enough, after having yawned three times while trying to make excuses. Sleep might be handy in the long run, after all.

"Well, if I'm going to allow for more sleep," he mused, rubbing at his eyes, "then I suppose that this might take another day or two more than I estimated." He stretched quickly and picked up a pen, staring blankly at the pile of forms to fill out or sign before him. "However long it takes, it should still all be done by the end of the week, I think."


	3. Offending Objects, Hard Work, and Sunny

**Disclaimer:** I don't own FMA, or the Harry Potter series.

**Chapter Three: Offending objects, hard work, and sunny beaches**

The end of the week came and went uneventfully. Progress had been made, of that Hawkeye was certain, but just how much was beyond her reckoning. At least, until Mustang finally stepped into the office one morning with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

"Ta-daa!"

Hawkeye looked at him warily. The un-Mustang-esque phrase didn't explain itself clearly, even when her superior officer brandished a small book in her face. The cover had a small patch in the corner, where it looked like someone – Mustang – had spilt his cocoa, but other than that, the only notable feature was that Hawkeye could smell the musty scent it gave off from where she sat. Given that Mustang had just dropped the book onto her desk, that wasn't very far.

Curiously, she opened the book. Notes were written on the left page in a small, compact hand, and on the right was an annotated transmutation circle. She flicked a few pages over, sharp eyes noting that every page on the way was set out in the same manner, for a slightly different circle.

Sitting back, Hawkeye looked across to where Mustang smirked triumphantly, now relaxing in his chair.

"Circles that lead us to other worlds," he told her simply, his smirk widening into a grin. "Every page has a new array, and a new world to go with it. Who knows how many unfound ones there are out there?"

"That's all very well, sir, but which world is the one that we're looking for? There has to be at least a hundred pages in this book," Hawkeye replied, looking back at the book to flick through all of the pages. Most of the pages slid through her fingers easily, but a few caught due to the uneven nature of the paper.

Mustang nodded along. "One hundred and forty-two," he amended. "But I have managed to cross off most of them, and I'm left with only the ones on pages five, thirteen, forty-seven, forty-nine, fifty-seven, sixt–"

"Alright!" So he'd managed to get rid of most of them – she got the idea.

Closing his mouth, Mustang smiled again. All of this work, and he'd managed to get it down to a select few. Too many 'select few' for his tastes, but at least the range of possibilities had lessened.

"Just how many are there that might be Flame's world?" asked Hawkeye casually. If this was really going to happen, she might as well know how long it would take them to go through and search all of the potential worlds.

"Eighteen."

Now that was a number that Hawkeye hadn't expected to hear. Maybe nine, or ten at most, but not eighteen. It would take a little too much time to just wander in and out of seventeen other worlds merely in order to find Flame. How were they expected to do this?

"And that's only because I managed to cross off pages twenty-seven and forty-five last night! If I'd given up and gone to bed at ten o'clock like I was going to, we'd be stuck with another two," he added.

Frowning, Hawkeye compared the array on page forty-five to that on page forty-seven. "What's the difference?" she asked. "How do you know which ones definitely aren't Flame's?"

Mustang hopped up out of his seat, and joined her at her desk, taking the book from her hands and putting it flat on the surface to point out some details. "All I really know is that for Flame's world, this triangle and this line–" he pointed out the offending objects on page forty-five "–have to be the other way around. The triangle needs to be in the inner circle, and the line needs to be next to this triangle," he explained, now pointing to an upside-down, three-pointed squiggle on page forty-seven. "I just cancelled out all transmutation circles that didn't have those qualities. Those two almost slipped by me before I noticed that the second triangle wasn't upside-down."

Ah yes, how could she not have noticed? The old 'these pictures are the wrong way around' trick. Oldest one in the book – she should have remembered to keep an eye out for it.

"So we're going to have to test all eighteen circles?"

He nodded.

"And you've figured out which circle brings us back home, right?"

Luckily, another nod.

She closed the book lightly. "Well, we'll have to try this on a Sunday. There's no telling how long it's going to take to do all of this," she said with a sigh. It looked like this would take a little longer than she had originally assumed.

"This weekend," Mustang said cheerfully, picking the book back up and striding over to his desk. He quickly slipped the book into one of his drawers and sat down, eyes roving around the office.

"Just remember that we're only doing this off a hunch," Hawkeye warned. "Flame might still be dead – don't get your hopes up too much."

Mustang stayed quiet, a small frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows – the first expression he had shown other than glee this whole morning. After a moment, he finally turned to Hawkeye and opened his mouth to speak. "Where are my other subordinates?"

* * *

A drop of sweat slid down the side of his face as Havoc stood straighter than he had ever before. Even after being given permission to stand at ease, not one of the four men had so much as slouched, instead opting to act as formally as they could in front of the Fuhrer. 

They stood in the hallway, where they had been found chatting amiably. To tell the truth, Fuhrer Bradley hadn't exactly snapped at them or scowled, but each man was waiting to be told that they had done something wrong. Just one of the perks of having a usually jovial and pleasant leader, however, was that he wasn't one to punish a group of soldiers just for loitering in the corridor.

"I was on my way to Colonel Mustang's office to address you all, but I suppose that I can let you each know now," Bradley divulged. "Each of you, as well as Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye, have been given a promotion for your good work on your last case."

Havoc barely held onto the formal posture he had managed to maintain as he looked in shock at the other officers lined up beside him. A promotion for all of them? The man had taken down a whole lot of the soldiers they had commanded, and they got promoted for it?

"Through such exemplary teamwork a large threat to the military is finally off the streets," Bradley explained. "I believe that that is enough to warrant a rise or two in the ranks." He gave them a smile and walked off towards Mustang's office, hands clasped behind his back.

He didn't know who broke the silence first – Breda, Falman, Feury or himself. Just that all of a sudden they looked at each other in wonderment, babbling on about the parts of the case they had worked on that must have contributed towards their advancement: organising the troops; leading the advance; tracking down the wanted man. And, of course, all of their hard work on other cases before this would have helped, too.

Havoc grinned, thinking to himself. First Lieutenant Jean Havoc. It was only one word's difference, but it sounded a whole lot nicer to him.

* * *

When the Fuhrer left the room and his subordinates filed in, various forms of glee expressed on their faces, Mustang viewed them with a new eye. First Lieutenant Havoc, First Lieutenant Breda, Second Lieutenant Falman and Warrant Officer Feury. And, of course, Major Hawkeye and himself – Brigadier General Mustang. Just one step closer to that ideal position of Fuhrer itself. 

A smile spread over Brigadier General Mustang's lips.

"Boss?"

It was only so long before he'd finally be able to accomplish his dreams and re-create the military into something purer. The next generation of soldiers wouldn't have to go through something like Ishbal for no reason.

"_Bo_-oss?"

Ishbal – the horror that spurred him on towards his dream. In the short time – had it been short? It didn't feel like it – that he had been there, his entire outlook and understanding on life had altered drastically.

"He's not listening, Havoc."

"I can tell that. He said he had news of some sort, though."

What was his outlook on life? He didn't bother with applying his own outlook to others, but rather believed for his own sake only, that to have accomplished something, he must change lives of the common man – and woman, and child – for the better. His understanding of life? That Utopia was impossible. There would always be something to be improved. Some person working for his own gain alone. But he could still try the best that he could to bring peace to the world.

"Yes, he's finished going over the research. We're going to try on Sunday."

"Why Sunday?"

"Eighteen circles to test, Havoc. You try doing all that on a work-day."

Over ten years in the military now, and what gain did he know? Well, he had just been promoted to Brigadier-General – that could be considered a gain. Especially since it'd also count for a bit of a pay-rise. Maybe he should buy himself a new suit to mark the occasion.

"Ahh, fair enough . . . Hey, is it just me, or does Colo– I mean, _Brigadier-General_ Mustang remind you of a particular 'Don' right now?"

There was a distinct pause in which Mustang's formerly glazed-over eyes focussed, and his head slowly turned towards the two co-workers within listening range. The laughter that showed openly on Havoc's face contrasted with the cool smile Hawkeye displayed.

"He does seem a little unobservant," she mused, now meeting his stare directly. Her eyes gleamed challengingly. "And unmotivated, and–"

Mustang stood up, pushing his chair back with his legs so that Havoc heard it and turned around, laughter vanishing to be replaced with an impish look. Mustang sighed and rolled his eyes, before telling Havoc to get back to his desk and start signing papers.

* * *

It was hot, and it was crowded, and it was disgusting. Normally he liked hot and crowded, provided that he was on some long sandy stretch of land that just _happened_ to be near a great mass of water. Of course, in those cases, he was surrounded by beautiful women confident enough in their bodies to be wearing bikinis – and a few less confident who he had to convince to do so – and was, himself, wearing only a pair of nice, cool board-shorts. 

Here, he was wearing layers and layers of clothing, because apparently that was what was done in this part of the world. Or this part of this world, anyway. And these crowds weren't the good type – oh, no! – they were in the 'too young', and for the most part, 'too male' categories. The one beautiful woman he had with him wasn't very pleased right now, and seemed ready to pull out her shiny best friends if he took so much as a step in the wrong direction.

And of course, there was the fact that instead of standing on a nice beach, they were in the middle of a crowded street. They _had_ been trying to fight their way through to the shops, but now they had suddenly stopped.

"We've spoken about this already," Riza hissed. "I don't care if you _have_ been promoted – that doesn't mean that you can just look at any woman you want!" He took careful note of the way that her fists were clenched. That habit was telling him that the only reason she refrained from pulling out her pistols was the mass of school children milling about in the street.

"I'm sorry," he repeated – it was exactly what he had been repeating for the last five minutes. "I swear that the only reason I was staring at her was because of the wart on her nose. Didn't you see it? It was . . ." he trailed off, only to swallow and find that all the muscles in his neck had restricted. As he had spoken, he had reached out to take her hand. That might not have been a good idea, given the look she was now sending in his direction.

There was an awkward moment in which the two watched each other closely, neither batting an eyelid. Suddenly, Riza became aware of the strange looks the people passing by were giving them, and she turned about and walked off with only a "come on," to indicate she was continuing to allow Flame in her presence. He breathed a sigh of relief and chased her down Diagon Alley.


	4. Kitchen Sinks, Snaggleteeth, and “Everyt

**Disclaimer:** I don't own FMA, or the Harry Potter series.

**Notes: **_Thank you, everyone for being so patient! I was really stuck for a while, but now I've come through that. Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long. _I'm warning you first, before you proceed – the characters belonging to each of the other 'worlds' are going to be terribly OOC. This is done on purpose because I'm having a jolly old time parodying cross-overs here. I am aware of just how uncharacteristic Dumbledore is, and it was planned, not just my brain's horrible twisting of him because I do/don't like him.

**Chapter Four: Kitchen sinks, snaggleteeth, and "everything"**

Flame idly fiddled with the quill in his hands, staring out of the window longingly. Seven days of teaching – it had sounded like a holiday to him, telling little brats about the very basics of his science. What a breeze, right? Well, that dream had been shot to pieces, and for once it wasn't by his gun-happy girlfriend.

He'd been here for four days already, and since Riza had insisted on his setting homework for the students – "How else will they learn?" – he now had a pile of scrolls on his desk that mounted higher than any of the paperwork he had been made to sign back in Central. True, they took up more room rolled than flat paper did, but the pile itself was foreboding.

It was with a hesitant hand that he started playing with the first scroll. Not marking it, of course, just fidgeting with a loose corner . . . bending it this way and that . . . foldi– oops, tearing a _little_ – just a little! – now folding and unfolding the corner he had ripped off.

He jumped as the office door flew open, and hurriedly hid the scrap in his lap, looking to the door with as much attention as he could muster. There was no chance that he had just been ruining someone else's hard done work. No, he hadn't been destroying _anything_ . . .

Riza sniffed as she strode in, and gave him a glare that plainly told him to get to work.

Flame ducked his head down. She didn't even need to use words to make him feel guilty. How _did_ she manage that? Pouting slightly, he reached for a scroll sitting on the top. Maybe he could just do something while she was watching. When she got distracted, he'd go off and get some coff– Oh. Not coffee, they didn't really have that here, did they? Just that awful tasting pumpkin juice.

It was hopeless. Another three days of this and there'd be nothing left of his brain to use.

Meal times were – how should he put it? – an _event_ at Hogwarts. A hall the size of the military cafeteria would be lit up with candles floating beneath what appeared to be an open roof, but was in fact just a bewitched ceiling. 'Just' a bewitched ceiling. It wasn't the most ominous of things, but looking at the sky from inside a roofed building did make him feel out of place. It just wasn't the most comforting of things to know that everything, including the ceiling, was magicked. He would have thought 'everything plus the kitchen sink,' but Flame hadn't been able to find the kitchens, let alone a kitchen sink. Whether it was hidden behind one of those portraits again – the things swung back and forth with such alacrity that he was surprised no-one had been hit in the face by one yet – or it was just that the sheer size of the castle had him confused, he did not know.

Beyond the mere ceiling of the Great Hall, mealtimes also included the sudden appearance of mass quantities of food and drink. Flame would eat the stuff – and despite an odd theme of pumpkin, which he couldn't stomach if they brought out another 'Pumpkin Pie' or whatever they thought of next (Pumpkin pasta? Spaghetti Pumpkinino? Pumpkin-chip cookies?) – but he wouldn't trust it past his wisdom teeth. Anything that occupied a previously empty space without travelling the distance between it and its previous location was not getting his seal of approval.

So during dinnertime that night, Flame sat at the teacher's table, eyeing his Fettuccini Pumpkinara distrustfully and trying not to gag on his Pumpkin Juice while Riza pointed out that if he looked more than a foot past his nose, he'd see that there were foods that didn't include pumpkin. All of the pumpkin-based foods were always put near him because they seemed to be the first thing he reached for, so people assumed that he liked them.

"Roy," Professor Dumbledore said, shocking Flame out of his pumpkin-shaped reverie.

The teachers at this school were a lot freer with given names than the military was. It was odd coming from a place of rank and last names to a place where the only people required to call you by your title were those younger than you. And one or two of the students didn't even do that since they noticed that Riza didn't. They had decided that since she wasn't officially counted as a teacher – only a teacher's aide – then that meant they were allowed to call him 'Roy' as well.

Flame looked at the Headmaster. "Yes?"

"We'd like for you to give a seminar," Dumbledore said. "A few of the other teachers and I were admiring your tactics, and wondered if you'd be able to help us with our own skills."

Flabbergasted, Flame frowned uncertainly. He was certain that he wasn't a particularly good teacher – Riza had had to tell him many times how to actually approach the students. He wasn't sure of anything, really.

"You want me to show _you_ how to teach?" he asked bemusedly.

Dumbledore blinked. "To teach? Why would we want that? You're a terrible teacher! Filch could teach students how to do magic better than you could teach students how to . . . well, do anything, really. _Almost_ anything," he amended with a thought.

Filch!? That creepy caretaker guy with the filthy unwashed hair and snaggletooth? "Well if you don't want that, then what are you talking about?"

"You," Dumbledore said, an air of austerity returning to his manner, "are an enigma amongst the Hogwarts staff, here. It's a mystery how you've managed to accomplish such an awe-inspiring feat, and we truly do wish to learn your secrets!"

In his head Flame was counting down. If this old coot didn't tell him what the heck he wanted by the time he got to fifty, he would explode. He was trying to be respectful to his superior officer- no, not officer. But still a superior. He was attempting to remain calm, but it was getting on his nerves. Flame didn't particularly like guessing games, and this one wasn't amusing him at all.

"We want to observe your each and every nuance, your intact conversations, even the way you walk – is it the way you walk? Maybe that's where I've been going wrong all of this time after all."

_. . . Ten . . . eleven . . ._

"It could be your attitude. Arrogance does seem to work sometimes – I've seen a few cases like that. And your excessive attempts to avoid work, too. I haven't tried that approach before, but if that's what works, then maybe that's what I'll have to do!"

_. . . Twenty-four . . . twenty-five . . ._

"Or your hair colour. Does hair colour change anything? I mean, mine's white, and yours is black, so maybe that's why I'm an utter failure when it all comes down to it. You'd never think that something as small as hair colour could be the determining factor, but it's hard to tell."

_. . . Thirty-eight . . . thirty-nine . . ._

"Maybe I'm looking at completely the wrong reasons, and that's why it just isn't working. What are the right reasons?" Dumbledore waited expectantly for an answer.

"Forty-three? Uh, I mean, erm," Flame babbled his way out of his confusion. Finally the old man had stopped. He seemed like he was in his right mind the previous times that Flame had spoken with him, but he supposed that senility had to set in for everyone at some time. Either that or he was attempting in an excruciatingly painful way to avoid naming the subject.

"The right reasons for what?" Flame asked. "Why am I an enigma?"

Dumbledore looked at him in surprise. "Haven't I been saying it all along, now?"

Trying to be respectful, Flame made sure the tone of his voice was as light as possible. It was an effort keeping the aggravation out of his tone. "No, you've been talking around the subject, but never said exactly what you want me to teach you all."

"Oh," Dumbledore said, apparently taken aback. "I thought I did say it at first, but maybe you were enjoying your pumpkin juice too much."

Flame shuddered.

"What we" – Dumbledore took the time to pause and gesture to the other male teachers along the table – "found so amazing in you, Roy, is that you're the only person on this staff who's gotten any in the last three months."

If he had been drinking his pumpkin juice, he would have spat the ghastly stuff out in surprise at Dumbledore's words. Actually, no, he would have spat the ghastly stuff out in disgust at the taste, then said "_Whaaaat!?_" at Dumbledore's words. But considering that Flame wasn't drinking his pumpkin juice, he had to settle for allowing his eyes to bulge in a shocked manner.

"Well," Dumbledore continued, "if you don't count Severus' drunken encounter – meaning that the woman, rather than Severus, was completely off her face – those three months ago, then you're the only staff member to have gotten any in the last eight years."

Flame took a deep breath. What this old man, with his long, silver beard was asking of him was to teach them how to get a date? No, not even that. How to score? He looked at the faces of the other desperate men along the staff table. Truth be told, he wasn't surprised that they couldn't get a woman. Not like they had the looks for it.

Nervously he looked back at his temporary employer. "Well, I suppose that I could give you a few tips," Flame muttered. These guys would need more than a few tips if they wanted to get anywhere.

* * *

Eagerly, Mustang chalked in the final squiggle and looked up to his companions hopefully. Though neither of them was the alchemic proficient he had studied to become, both had keen eyes, and were able to point out the triangle that he had missed by comparing the image in book and the array on the floor. Mustang drew it quickly before standing back to admire his work.

"That's everything?"

"That's everything."

He tucked the book underneath his arm – they'd need to keep that with them if they wanted any idea of what the other arrays were supposed to look like. Of course, they wouldn't need to know what all of the other arrays looked like if this one was the right one. And Roy hoped that it was. He beckoned his two subordinates closer with his unoccupied hand.

"I assume that we all just need to stand around it," Mustang told them, his eyes on the drawing before him. "There was some mention in the notebook about two yards, but I don't remember whether that was the supposed diameter or the distance we stand from it. Just to be careful, I drew the circle that size anyway."

They still examined the array out of thoroughness – if it was wrong, there was no telling what might happen to them. To anyone who didn't understand alchemy, they might have looked like a group of adults trying to figure out how to get the graffiti off the floor, but this was a time when a meticulous nature was necessary.

If they had so much as one step wrong . . . Well, at least Fullmetal knew an automail mechanic and he could put in a good word for– Scratch that. At least _Alphonse_ knew an automail mechanic and he could put in a good word for them . . . provided that they came out alive – that was the big one that Mustang was aiming for. But maybe these creatures behind the Doors liked to have a person live in pain rather than just die. If that was the case, then amputation seemed to be the most likely side-effect.

But those weren't exactly the pleasant thoughts that he wanted to be thinking. He had already determined that every line was correct, and every marking was there in its rightful place. Everything was _fine_.

"So are we ready?" Mustang asked to break the silence.

The other two shifted on their feet. "Yes, I believe that that's all," Hawkeye said uneasily. She had probably been thinking similar thoughts to him. "We may as well get going, and make the best use of our time."

Mustang crouched down beside the array again, and told his subordinates to imitate him. They crouched beside him, their arms reaching out as his hands stretched to sit on the circle.

"Boss! What about equiv–"

A blue light shone up from the transmutation circle, enveloping all three officers.


	5. Castle Tours, Chapter Names, and ‘Honeyb

**Disclaimer:** I don't own FMA, or the Harry Potter series.

**Chapter Five: Castle tours, chapter names, and 'honeybunch'**

It was agony – pure agony. That was all that he could feel right now. An itching, writhing, squirming irritation from head to toe that was driving him insane. When was this torture going to end and let him be at peace again? When would he be able to unbunch his fingers from the fists they had been forced into? When would these flipping idiots listen to what he was saying?

"No, no, no! You do not walk up to a woman and ask if she wants a tour of the castle. It doesn't matter how big you say the towers are, that's still one of the worst pick up lines you could try," Flame raged.

He had been listening to these numbskulls all afternoon, trying to remedy their woeful ways with women. All it seemed that he had accomplished so far was convincing them that hair was a part of the issue, which from Dumbledore's "ahh, just as I thought," they seemed to have already known, but had been wilfully ignoring it. So now, if they wanted contact of any kind with a female, Dumbledore was to shorten his beard so that he at least wouldn't trip on it, Snape was to wash his hair at least once a month – the concept of twice a week had been enough for him to take a swipe at Flame's face – Hagrid needed to take a pair of hedge-clippers to his head and get rid of the stuff, and the others . . . well, who cared about the others, really? Dumbledore, Snape and Hagrid were the only ones who could and in some cases would make the remainder of Flame's week at Hogwarts a living hell.

"How about telling us some lines we can use, then?" Daumbledore pleaded from behind his desk.

They were in an unused classroom, and by this time most students were in their common rooms, so they had very little chance of being interrupted. Each of the desperate professors had taken a seat, and a few were scribbling notes. Flame even had a piece of chalk in his hand, and every now and then when he said something note-worthy, he'd quickly write it up on the board, so that the more studious ones could get it written down.

Flame thought. Some of his more popular lines were his most simple. "If you go for cheesy, they just look at you strange, tell you they're not interested and walk away," he admitted – his personal experience in that area had been limited to one unfortunate case, but he had cackled many a time when Jean had come into work with his woebegone expression and told the others of his foolish exploits that weekend.

"Comment on how nice she looks," he mused onwards, " – not the 'is it me or are you hot in here?' sort of thing, but tell her that she's so beautiful you noticed her from across the room, or say something about her hair. Girls always like compliments on their hair. Most of the time," he amended quickly. Some liked, some didn't care, but he was yet to find one who absolutely hated it.

"You could tell her that you like her dress, or shirt or whatever, but make sure that you only do so if it's not a revealing one, or otherwise she'll think you're just perverted." His eyes fell on the vertically challenged Professor Flitwick – on first seeing the man he had had the epiphany that this must have been Ed's father or uncle. "And just in your case, Flitwick, don't tell any woman that you like her skirt unless the hem reaches to the floor."

"For the past hour," Snape interrupted, "you have lectured us about physical appearance, clothing and 'pick-up lines', but other than the claim that this all works, we have seen absolutely no proof."

Flame rolled his eyes. Other than the reluctant admittance that he needed to wash his hair more, Snape had made very little progress. At least the others were eager to learn – he seemed to just be here to boo and hiss at Flame's every attempt.

"Well then," Flame said, sarcasm entering into his tone. "If you want proof, then why don't I just trundle down to Hogsmeade and show you that I can do it?"

"No," came the quick answer, the one word delivered as finally as any sentence passed by judge or jury.

That was not what Flame had unexpected. "A what?"

"No," Snape repeated. "We know that you can get a woman. I'd like to see your methods work for me," he said, looking levelly at the man standing in front of the class. "Is it possible?"

Well, he had been conducting the class for their benefit, not for his own, so he supposed that it was the logical thing to do. But how likely was it that anyone would want to go out with this greasy, grimy, Potion-obsessive professor when a clean, good-looking alchemist – and war-hero to boot – was standing right across the room? If there was some way of first changing the man into less of a freak, and then of watching him without being visible, then maybe he could give that a try.

"Maybe," Flame said after a long pause. "We could give it a shot and see what we can do. But you'd have to listen to absolutely everything I tell you to do," he said severely. This wouldn't work if the man tried it his own way.

Which is why later that night, when he got back from the lessons to his room, Flame found himself on his knees, staring puppy-eyed at the face of one blonde Lieutenant.

"Pleeease?" he begged, hands out in front of him. "If you just go out with him this one time, then he'll get off my back, and it won't matter whether or not it works normally."

"Roy," Riza told him, absolutely gob-smacked, "he's disgusting. I am not touching that thing just so that you don't get fired before you're finished. We only have tomorrow left in this castle before we've got to move on to our next job. Just tell him it'll take one more day to reform him, and that you'll supervise him picking up some wench at the village tomorrow night."

Flame paused. That could work. That might work. In fact, it probably would work. And it would mean that he wouldn't have to watch the snaky-Snape-man try to hit on his girlfriend. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Maybe because the writer needed to fill in some more words so that this chapter would be an acceptable length.

. . . Flame looked around. That was one eerie thought. Did some voice in his mind like to categorise sections of his life into chapters? Or was that just some crazy gene coming through? If so, it came from his father's side of the family. Whatever the problem was, he still wondered what this chapter would be called. Maybe 'Hot women have good ideas,' or 'Flame gets out of one of the worst predicaments of his life,' or – and this was the one he was hoping for – 'Flame doesn't spend the night alone'.

With as much elegance as he could muster, Flame climbed off his knees and brushed off the patches of dirt now on his uniform. If he wanted a chapter heading to go a certain way, he'd have to make sure he behaved appropriately. Having cleaned his uniform, he looked Riza in the face and smirked. "Yu have great ideas. I knew that I was in love with you for a reason."

She giggled and put her arms around his neck. "And so you should be."

The next day, Flame walked as he mused over the fact that he didn't really care what the chapter heading was, just as long as the content of the chapter was pleasing. For all he knew, the chapter was over already, and the author was ready to stop discussing what the chapter heading might be. Which, despite the chapter not being over yet, she is. Ahem.

So, the next day, Flame announced to his colleagues what the plan was.

"This evening, when all of the classes have ended, I will instruct Severus for half an hour, reminding him of what needs to be done before he is ready. After that, he will wash and dress appropriately, then I will brief him on what sort of conversations to hold, and what sort of conversations not to hold with a woman, and then we'll head to Hogsmeade. I will be waiting outside the Three Broomsticks forty-five minutes after he goes in, so he has that much time to try to talk to as many women as he wants. I'll wait there for half an hour, and if he leaves within that appointed time, then I'll see whether he succeeded or failed in picking up some woman. You lot can go in, if you want – I'm sure that you won't be too much of a distraction for the ladies, as you are – but it's my fate to wait outside."

"But won't you get bored, if you waiting there for half an hour?" Flitwick piped up.

"Oh no," Flame assured them all. "I'll bring Riza with me. We can . . . erm . . . talk until Snape comes out."

The sage heads nodded. It seemed that the plan was set up ready. Flame smiled, and went to teach his first class for the day.

After teaching third years and seventh years – then breaking for lunch – and first years, sixth years and fourth years, Flame could say that he wasn't happier to see the backs of these kids. His week of teaching was up, and he'd be leaving Hogwarts in only a few hours after he finished his last task. But his main glee in seeing the students go was that this time he wouldn't have to mark their homework, and even Riza couldn't find a way around it – it wasn't like he could mail their marks back when he had finished, so all the work had to be left behind for the next person who took up the job.

His last class trickled out of the room, the looks on their faces saying that they were eager to be anywhere but inside the classroom. Flame couldn't blame them, really. He thought it must have had something to do with the fact that Riza shot at him every time that he spoke to one of the female students, and that spooked them. Riza also noticed the students' willingness to leave the room, and put it down to the fact that Flame had been flirting with every female student in the class, which would have scared the young girls. The students themselves had also noticed their own desire to evacuate the room, and they had a much firmer idea of why they wanted to get out of there – they didn't want to still be there when their professor and his aide jumped each other, in any sense of the phrase.

Flame looked to Riza with a smile on his face as she walked over to him, hips swaying. "Time to go get your 'pupil' ready for his big date, Roy," she said with a smirk before walking out of the room, too. Flame watched after her for a moment before jumping up and went off to find Snape.

So in one and a half hours' time, Flame let a confused and disoriented – and clean – Snape stumble into the Hogsmeade bar.

"Well, my work here is done," Flame said, brushing his hands together. He had just completed one of the hardest tasks of his life – getting Severus Snape to look like a real human being, rather than some creature that just rose up out of a lagoon and chose to walk on land for a few millennia.

"Roy?"

"Mmhmm?"

"Aren't you going to wait and see if he can actually get someone?" Riza asked him.

Flame screwed up his nose. That would mean waiting around the village for ages. He didn't want to do that. "Well, we have to be leaving pretty soon, honeybunch. We're going to have to pack our bags and make sure that we don't miss our ride to our next job. He's not going to be coming out for another forty-five minutes, so we may as well use that time to get ready. Then, if we happen to be ready before the time is up, we'll just have to leave then."

"Oh, okay," Riza said, blushing. He had never called her that in public before, and even though there was currently no one else waiting outside the doors of the Three Broomsticks, she was still very conscious of the times he usually did call her that.

The two of them trundled back towards the castle and wandered into their rooms to gather up all the luggage they had brought with them. When ten minutes later – they hadn't brought much with them – they were stopped as they went past the staff room, they made a very suspicious scene, suitcases and all.

"Professor Mustang, we've just had a report that You-Know-Who has somehow gotten into Hogwarts! All the teachers need to rally up and fight him while the students evacuate!" McGonagall cried. Then, spotting the suitcases she had formerly neglected to see, her expression dropped. "What are . . . Are you leaving?"

Flame gave a spectacular bow. "I apologise for the inconvenience. I had heard nothing of this predicament. Allow me only to go and fetch Professor Snape from Hogsmeade, and then I assure you I will return and help you to vanquish the evil in these castle walls."

Somewhat dazed by the flowery speech, McGonagall stuttered a "Y-y-yes, certainly. I-I apologise for- for having doubted you," and let Flame and Riza hurry off.

"Roy," Riza asked when they rounded the corner, "are you sure you want to fight that man? You could get hurt!"

"Pff!" Flame said, hurrying down a staircase. "I'm not hanging around to get killed – we're going home!"

* * *

_A/N: (13-04-7) I apologise to you all. While I know vaguely what is supposed to happen, I've been trying and trying to write it down, but it's coming in such staggered intervals that the quality of my work is deteriorating. I'm going to have to put this story on hiatus just until I can write it smoothly again. Thank you for your understanding, and I apologise again for this bother._

_-Dai_


End file.
